


what you lost and what you had

by Maria_Antonina



Series: keep my visions to myself [2]
Category: Star Wars: Rebels
Genre: M/M, SWR cast - Freeform, Swearing, |Torture mention
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-23
Updated: 2019-01-02
Packaged: 2019-06-15 06:08:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 15,192
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15406692
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maria_Antonina/pseuds/Maria_Antonina
Summary: Normally, Kallus wouldn’t stand for letting others argue his fate while he sat idly by, but he wastired.(Or in which Kallus takes risks Zeb can do nothing about.)





	1. One

**Author's Note:**

> Here's more!
> 
> It's completely un-beta-ed. I'm sorry. Anyone wants to give it a shot, find me on tumblr, I'm illputaspellonyou.

*

 

Kallus would never admit it out loud, but there were certain things he missed about the Empire.

 

Dedicated cleaning staff, for one. Standard education requirements -- he’s fairly sure at least a quarter of their most useful spies never set a foot in a school of any kind. Food, too. He knew, objectively, that some Rebels performed miracles with the scraps they could afford, and Zeb’s penchant for trying new things certainly led them to discover some interesting cuisines, but Kallus lived off protein paste and the rare official banquet for most of his life. He couldn’t handle spices without severely embarrassing himself.

 

For another, the clear chain of command.

 

“ _I don’t recall asking your permission, general Syndulla,_ ” Draven’s tone was clipped even through the holocom interference, running low on patience. For all his brilliance, the general had a bit of a temper on him.

 

Like Kallus could talk.

 

“I know, it was incredibly rude,” said Hera, arms crossed on her chest. “You can’t just take over a member of _my_ squad.”

 

“ _Captain Kallus has been working in my division since his joining the rebellion._ ”

 

“Well, he wouldn’t be here at all if it wasn’t for the Phoenix cell. _And_ the med droid hasn’t cleared him for active duty yet.”

 

Normally, Kallus wouldn’t stand for letting others argue his fate while he sat idly by, but he was _tired_. He had surgical scars he didn’t remember receiving that likely had something to do with his slow recovery rate, his ribs hurt like hell if he so much as turned too fast, and he kept bumping into things with his messed up depth perception For the first time in his life, he’d actually prefer to stay on medical leave, urgent assignments notwithstanding.

 

“ _Syndulla, I’ve got a serious matter here. I don’t care if you need a babysitter--_ ”

 

Ouch.

 

“You did _not_ \--”

 

Kallus phased the rest of the argument out. He wasn’t sure if it was the drugs or the latent effects of having sharp objects poked into him for weeks, but he felt rather apathetic lately. Still, he couldn’t let those two waste time throwing barbs at each other for the rest of the day.

 

“Send me the briefing,” he said, rubbing his eyes. “I’ll see what I can do.”

 

Hera shot him a betrayed look, but Draven merely nodded, satisfied. “ _Thank you, captain. Draven out,”_ and he ceased the call. Not a minute later, Kallus’ personal comm buzzed with an incoming file.

 

Hera waited for him read through it. He was fairly sure she stopped Chopper from shocking him, too.

 

“I can handle it,” he concluded, keeping his face carefully neutral and closing the file. “Granted, I could use some stims.”

 

“We’ve had this conversation already,” she said sternly. “You have to heal first.”

 

He rolled his eye -- something he was aware had somewhat a diminished effect these days -- and cursed Zeb for enlisting the entire goddamn planet into refusing Kallus access to the good drugs. To be fair, he was mysteriously missing a kidney, and most stims were known to be rather heavy on those. Kallus didn’t feel particularly charitable towards his body at the moment, though.

 

“He’s not an idiot,” he said, instead of something unwise. “Draven, I mean. He wouldn’t have asked if there was anyone else available.”

 

“I know that,” she sighed. “But you better have a good excuse prepared when Zeb hears about it.”

 

Kallus knew she was just being kind; they were a tightly knit family unit, caring about each other and talking about their problems. Still, it would be a cold day in hell by the time he took relationship advice from a woman half his age.

 

“Alex. You’re making a face,” Hera informed him. “Force only knows how the two of you manage your affairs, but if you leave him in the dark, it will come back to bite you in the ass,” she warned.

 

“Duly noted,” he gave a little bow, ignoring the fire it set his ribs on, and making an exit before she managed to scold him for it.

 

Hera’s office was located at the top of one of the city’s new towers, directly opposite the governor’s chambers -- Trombetta, if he recalled correctly, Ryder having retired last year. The views were impressive, as was the poignancy of such positioning, but being relatively young and spry, neither Hera nor the new governor seemed to notice that their elevator seemed to be out of service some 80% of the time.

 

Kallus groaned, banging his forehead against the cool metal of the sliding door, the bright yellow sign informing him that, today, the tower management kindly requested him to use the stairs. He’s been in that office for less than an hour, and the kriffing thing managed to break already. Taking the five flights down to the public floors and their numerous lifts wasn’t, in theory, completely beyond his ability, but he’d rather avoid the humiliation of passing out on an unsuspecting receptionist.

 

Something out there seemed determined to make him suffer.

 

*

 

“You’re late,” the medical droid fussed, rushing him into the physio room. “Routine is important, captain. I wish you’d heed this advice.”

 

Kallus gritted his teeth. Antagonising the droid in charge of making sure he was capable of moving wasn’t in his best interest, but it sure was tempting.

 

“There were technical difficulties,” he muttered.

 

Physiotherapy was, without exaggeration, on par with the torture itself in terms of pain. Kallus ended up pulling rank to get private sessions, rather than group ones held earlier in the morning. If he was going to end up in tears and praying for release of death, he didn’t want any witnesses whose memory cores he couldn’t remove. Unfortunately, that meant his _other_ therapy started minutes afterwards, when he was still trying to remember how to breathe normally, and Dr Yalagi used the fact mercilessly.

 

This time was no different. The droid was thorough, poking and prodding until Kallus was shaking. It even went as far as taking the dressing off his eye to check on the progress there.

 

He blinked a few times as the bandage came off. He could tell his eye was open, but that was about it. Last time he’s seen it in a mirror, the sclera was completely bloodshot, the pupil misshapen and bleeding into the iris, and judging by the droid’s dissatisfied tutting, it didn’t look much better yet. Dr Yalagi entered the room just as the dressing was going back on, and Kallus felt a surge of annoyance at her terrible habit of never bloody _knocking_.

 

She wanted to catch him off guard, he figured, and kept succeeding despite him knowing that, which was the cherry on top of the annoyance sundae.

 

“Captain,” she greeted him as the droid puttered out of the room. “You look particularly oppressed today.”

 

And _then_ there was her sense of humour.

 

Yalagi was ancient -- she must have been over a hundred, once retired but returned to active duty on some general’s request. She’s been haunting Lothal ever since it became an unofficial long-term treatment facility for the rebellion, to Kallus’ deepest regret.

 

“Doctor,” he forced a smile. “I see you won another round.”

 

This was an on-going joke picking on a comment she made during their first session, talking about playing poker with the Grim Reaper every night to see if she’ll wake up in the morning. Kallus wouldn’t normally play along with the morbidity, but she had a way of getting under his skin.

 

“Charming as always. I see you have a new assignment?”

 

_And_ she had access to his file, albeit heavily censored.

 

“Yes. I’m hoping to move out as soon as the contact is primed.”

 

She looked at him above her spectacles. “It says right here that your medical leave doesn’t end until two weeks from now,” she pointed out. “Has general Draven forgotten how to read?”

 

“I understand that, after Hoth, we need all the leads we can take.”

 

Yalagi mm-hmm-ed, scratching a note on her pad. “I was under the impression that we don’t send people to their deaths, but what does an old woman know.”

 

Kallus didn’t think any response he was about to make would gain him any points on the sanity scale, so he wired his jaw shut and sat tight. She gave him an unimpressed look.

 

“Captain, I believe you need yet another reminder that this isn’t the Empire,” she said sternly. “You won’t be relegated to sidelines or dropped altogether for taking too long to heal. In fact, it would be more beneficial to rebelion as a whole to only have you back when you truly feel ready.”

 

“That’s what Hera keeps saying,” he sighed. “In case it escaped your attention, this _is_ a war. I might never get better, but I can still help where I can.”

 

“Is that what you think? That you’re not getting better?”

 

He bristled. “I wouldn’t subject myself to this misery if I didn’t see any effect, doctor.”

 

There was a gleam in her eye. “But you’re willing to potentially undo all your effort in order to complete an assignment?”

 

“If it’s important enough.”

 

“And is it?”

 

Kallus didn’t answer straight away. Technically, everything he was ever assigned to was classified, but he received permission to speak of the general outlines if it helped with his treatment. This particular one, though… Draven really couldn’t send anyone else to meet with a new Imperial informant. Not if the Imperial’s name was Yogar Lyste.

 

Lyste’s always been somewhat naive and easily manipulated -- Kallus took every advantage of that during his time as Fulcrum -- but conscientious and hard working, too. He survived Atollon in the brig, and Kallus didn’t know what happened to him afterwards, but wasn’t surprised to hear that being used as bait and held for a crime he didn’t commit didn’t sit well with the young lieutenant. Of course, sending Kallus of all people to induct him could potentially be disastrous, but then again…

 

“It’s important to me,” he said eventually. Yalagi nodded and wrote something down. Kallus wondered who got to read it, other than her.

 

“Now, captain. During our last session, you said your memories from Iastea were returning?”

 

This again. “They were never lost,” he shrugged. “It’s just getting easier to think about it.”

 

“Do they ever surprise you?”

 

He thought about the broken plate in the sink.

 

He wasn’t sure if he dropped it before or after the flash of-- Zeb’s been putting a shelf up in Jacen’s room, for his ever-growing toy collection. The rhythmic banging of a hammer made Kallus’ skin crawl, until he found himself staring at the shards of ceramic with blood on his hands.

 

“Yes,” he admitted. “Although I’m not sure if ‘surprise’ is the right word.”

 

“Gang up and assault you why your back is turned?”

 

Kallus winced. “Poetic. And accurate.”

 

“What if it happens again? While on assignment?”

 

Zeb hadn’t even asked any questions. Just sat Kallus down, put some bacta on his hands and cleaned the plate away without a word.

 

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “I guess we’ll find out.”

 

*

 

He was late home, too. His shoulder was too stiff to drive a speeder, so he walked, and his pace wasn’t exactly what it used to be.

 

“There you are,” Zeb immediately abandoned the rifle he was cleaning, walking up to wrap Kallus in a hug.

 

Kallus always hated being touched. Just as with everything else, Zeb was an exception to the rule. He sank into the embrace, letting the lasat take his weight and help remove his coat. Judging by the lack of noise, Jacen was either asleep or with Sabine, which was probably for the best. The kid was adorable, but confusing as all hell, and Kallus didn’t think he’d make the best company for a three year old at the moment.

 

“What does that droid do, put you through a wringer?,” Zeb tried to release him, but Kallus wasn’t quite ready for that yet, so he held on. “Oh. That kind of a day?”

 

_I’m old, and I don’t like it,_ he wanted to complain.

 

It was becoming increasingly apparent, too. Coruscanti tended to age weird, as evident by what he observed of his grandfather, whose fourth wife survived him at 130. He was fairly sprightly for his years, but Kallus has only ever remembered him as an old man. He spent more than a third of his life slowly deteriorating and becoming more bitter with every new ailment. At 45, Kallus was rapidly approaching middle-age, and if his genetics followed the paternal side of his family, was due some heart complication sooner rather than later.

 

Meanwhile, lasats lived over 200 years on average. Zeb was his age, and wouldn’t even be considered _old_ by the time Kallus drew his last breath.

 

And wasn’t that a cheerful thought.

 

“Kal? You in there?”

 

“Sorry,” he ran a hand down his face. “The eye’s not doing great, and I’m pretty sure I pissed Hera off.”

 

“Never a wise choice,” Zeb nodded. Suddenly, Kallus found himself pushed into a chair and handed a glass of water. “I could’ve picked you up, you know. Sabine took the kid to see the wolves.”

 

Kallus was nowhere near capable of wrapping his head around the wolves, so he accepted their existence as a quirk of nature and tried not to think about them. Jacen calling one of them ‘the dad wolf’ was putting a strain on that, though.

 

“I’m fine. Just--,” tired, annoyed, sick of his own body failing him, desperate for some sort of independence, “--needed a walk, that’s all.”

 

Zeb didn’t buy it, but didn’t push either. He was generous like that.

 

“Was gonna wait with food for everyone to come back, you okay with that?,” the lasat asked instead. In Kallus’ long absence, he turned into a pretty decent cook, if only by getting plenty of practice trying to feed a constantly busy general, a Mandalorian and a baby. “We’ve got leftovers if you need to eat something before that.”

 

“I’m good,” he shook his head. He wondered how long can he keep up a normal, _domestic_ conversation before the guilt consumed him, and decided not to give it a chance. “Zeb, I need to tell you something.”

 

The lasat stopped dead in his tracks. With his back turned, Kallus could see him force his shoulders to relax and ears to lower.

 

“Do I need to punch Draven again?,” there was a dangerous note in Zeb’s tone, and while it tended to make a pleasant shiver run down Kallus’ back, now really wasn’t the time.

 

Wait, what?

 

“Again?,” he asked, incredulous. “When did you punch Draven?”

 

As he turned to face him, Zeb had the decency to look embarrassed. “We might’ve had a difference of opinions,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “But the offer stands.”

 

Kallus carefully considered his options.

 

“I have an assignment,” he said. Zeb’s hands clenched into fists, but he was clearly determined to hear Kallus out, and what did he ever do to deserve this ridiculous man? “I’ve looked into it, and it’s within my ability. Would only take a day or two, as well,” assuming Lyste wasn’t rash enough to have already sabotaged himself within the Empire, and therefore in need of an immediate extraction. That was a scenario for another day, though. “I told Draven I’d see what I can do. If you don’t want me to go, I won’t.”

 

It was a pretty long walk, and he had nothing to do but think. He’d now spent years in effort to undermine the Empire, and it still wasn’t going anywhere fast. While he felt personally responsible for Lyste’s fate, ultimately, it was just lieutenant in a sea of defectors. If nobody else could organise his welcome into the rebellion, or if the young man died while at it, the only casualty would be Kallus’ chance of apologising to him.

 

If he lost Zeb, the casualty would be Kallus. He had frighteningly little doubt about that. Sacrificing his standing in the rebellion meant nothing in comparison of even a possibility that Zeb would leave. Such reliance on one person probably wasn’t healthy, but there was a time when work always took priority, and it didn’t make Kallus a better man.

 

Zeb chewed on whatever first came to his mind, then rather visibly commanded himself to Stay Calm. Kallus was getting nervous. He knew how to deal with an angry Zeb, it was the responsible, empathetic one that completely threw him off the track.

 

“Zeb?,” he stood up, suddenly needing to be close. Clearly, telling him was a bad idea; he should've stuck to his initial plan of just going and dealing with the fallout later. Damn Syndulla and her maternal advice.

 

“I knew you'd go back to work eventually,” Zeb sighed. It was heavy and defeated, and Kallus felt like a monster. “Can't very well stop you, can I.”

 

“You--,” Kallus didn't expect _this_. “You can't?”

 

Zeb looked at him. “Do you want me to?”

 

They stood in silence for what felt like an eternity and then some. Kallus was distantly aware that he was panicking, hands shaking and words stuck in his throat. He wanted to say yes.

 

He couldn't say yes. Draven was already short on agents. Lyste might get himself and whoever else was sent for him killed, and their deaths would be on Kallus. He already had too many weighing down on his conscience.

 

“No. I-- I need to do this,” he said.

 

Zeb closed his eyes briefly, as if Kallus’ answer physically hurt him.

 

“Alright,” he said, finally. “I’m definitely punching Draven, just so you know.”

 

“I’ll pretend I knew nothing about it,” Kallus promised, hating how his voice broke mid-sentence.

 

It was likely the most straight-forward assignment he’s ever had with the rebellion, get in, find Lyste, get data, get out. Very little could go wrong -- granted, as long as their intel was up to date, and that was never a guarantee -- and yet, Kallus felt like he was about to leave for another three year long mission.

 

*

 

“Am I really the only person who thinks that letting him do this is fucked up?”

 

“Sabine,” Zeb growled in warning, but it was too late; Kallus has already opened the door, and couldn’t very well pretend he hadn’t heard.

 

Hera was feeding Jacen his breakfast at the table, face carefully blank. Sabine stood by the kitchen counter, arms crossed over her chest and glaring daggers at Zeb, who, for his part, looked fairly angry as well. Kallus had an inkling as to what the argument was about.

 

“While I appreciate the concern,” he said, leaning in the doorway, “I’m capable of making my own decisions, thank you.”

 

“You’re capable of keeling over in a strong wind, is what you are,” Sabine said, and thrown her hands up when Zeb and Hera winced. “What? He should be in a bacta tank, not getting shot at!”

 

Kallus was confused. These were the sort of words he expected to hear from Zeb the day before. His and Sabine’s relationship was mostly based on caring for Zeb, sarcasm, and little else; hearing her express concern about his well being was somewhat disconcerting.

 

“Sabine, that’s enough,” Zeb wasn’t looking at her, or him, staring at the window instead with an increasingly stormy air about him. Overnight, he curled up around Kallus like an overprotective bear and, slowly, seemed to relax to the idea. If a few comments from their designated Mandalorian got him so worked up, maybe Kallus misread the signs. Maybe Zeb actually resented his decision, but was too mindful of boundaries around their barely-there relationship to speak up. Maybe it wasn’t Kallus Sabine was worried about.

 

Jacen looked between all of them with innocent curiosity. Adult fights didn’t seem to phase him in the slightest, probably an effect of Hera taking him into command meetings.

 

Kallus cleared his throat. “I’m going to the market,” and then, because his brain tended to backfire sometimes, he added: “I’ll see if they’ve got some extra bacta patches, for when I inevitably get shot at.”

 

And with that, he left the house.

 

*

 

“You need to stop leaving in a huff.”

 

Kallus was fairly proud of himself. It took Zeb a good hour to find him. He circled all around the city before coming to a rest on a bench by Jacen’s favourite playground.

 

“It wasn’t a huff,” he replied, with as much dignity as he could muster while massaging a cramp out of his leg. “It was a calculated exit.”

 

Zeb crouched next to him, rubbing out the sore spot with much more success than Kallus himself. “Keep telling yourself that,” he muttered.

 

He was clearly not in the best of moods, but neither was Kallus, so it was only fair.

 

“If you don’t want me to go, just say so.”

 

“What good that’s gonna do?,” Zeb grumbled. “You’ve made your mind up.”

 

“Yes, but you don’t need to be so goddamn _noble_ about it.”

 

They glared at each other for a moment, before Zeb groaned and heaved himself up on the bench. He threw an arm around Kallus as well, because being angry has never before stopped Zeb from being tactile.

 

“You’ve only just came back,” he said. “And barely, at that.”

 

“You underestimate my survival skills.”

 

“No, Kal, you--,” Zeb run a hand down his face, exhaling in frustration. “Karabast, I don’t know how to explain any of this.”

 

Kallus frowned. “If weeks in an Imperial prison didn’t kill me, I think it follows that a simple recruitment run won’t, either.”

 

“I got basically kicked off of Yavin for worrying about you,” Zeb said. “If I was being logical about this, I’d have thought you were long dead and moved on.”

 

“Why didn’t you?”

 

He dreaded the answer. Returning to Lothal was one of the most nerve-wracking experiences Kallus’ ever had, and having only just escaped torture at the hands of his former colleagues, that said… something, about his state of mind. When Zeb wasn’t there at first, he thought-- Sabine just smacked his arm and told him to wait. At the time, he was glad he listened, but maybe it would’ve been easier on everyone if he hitched a ride off the planet as soon as possible.

 

“Hey,” Zeb put a hand on his cheek and turned his face towards himself. It was a surprisingly gentle gesture, and honestly, Kallus was too old to be so easily flustered. “I love you. I don’t think I know how to stop.”

 

Kallus’ brain went quiet.

 

This was how he survived Iastea, he thought. By remembering the night after liberating Lothal. By remembering Zeb crowding him against the wall and--

 

“Come with me,” he said.

 

This turned out to be simultaneously the best and worst idea he’s ever had.


	2. 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zeb is _this_ close to being Done.

*

The Jelucan situation had pretty much proved that ‘not cleared for active duty’ doesn’t mean ‘here’s a blaster, enjoy your assignment’, but Zeb had an inkling Kallus needed a little bit more convincing on that front.

“Hey, Kal,” he started, putting the _Phantom_ on autopilot. Kallus was laid out flat on the floor, still breathing heavily from the mad dash they had to make to the Valentia port. His ribs must have been killing him, too. “Is it too early to say I kriffin’ told you so?”

Kallus raised his hand in a rude gesture. Lyste hiccuped something that could have been a laugh, then curled up on the bench and promptly passed out.

They were safe now, on the way back to Lothal, so Zeb could see the funny side, but just moments ago, he was fairly convinced he would have to watch Kallus die by Imperial blasters. That was not an experience he wanted to repeat in a hurry. They’ve only been reunited for a couple of months, and quite frankly, Zeb thought he deserved a little more time than this before one of them inevitably died while doing something stupid.

And it was. Stupid. Risking their lives for a small fry like Lyste, who didn’t even figure he had a tracking device planted on him Ashla knows how long ago. Sure, he claimed he had some invaluable data on him, but the data spike got blasted to smithereens alongside the stormtroopers they had to outrun.

Zeb should never have caved in. He’d been talking to Chava again, figuring out how Lira San would receive a rehabilitated ex-Imperial, but it was a long process. People needed to be told. Some needed to be smacked upside the head. Leave had to be granted, and while Kallus was supposed to stay on medical for at least several months, Zeb had his own responsibilities in the rebellion. It was taking time, and Kallus acted like he didn’t have any left, sometimes. Babysitting Jacen and pouring over reports could only ever satisfy so much of his need to be useful.

And he _was_ useful. Whatever he’d done to land himself in an imperial prison, earned Kallus enough brownie points with the leadership to be given a general-level clearance, if not the title. Zeb suspected that the latter was mostly to discourage him from immediately returning onto duty. Even Draven seemed uneasy with sending Kallus out in his current state, still struggling to keep food down, with mysteriously acquired surgical scars all over his body and only one functioning eyeball. Zeb figured that a straight-forward mission like Jelucan, in-and-out within a rotation, would calm him down some, maybe bring home just how hurt he was, but--

But nothing ever went Zeb’s way. All that Jelucan brought home was new bruises and a sinking feeling in his stomach that, sooner or later, Kallus would drive himself into an early grave, just to prove that a couple broken ribs wasn’t going to stop him from fighting this war.

“Zeb,” Kallus still haven’t moved from the floor, sounding halfway asleep. “C’mere.”

Zeb obliged easily, double-checking their course before padding over to the other end of the shuttle and sitting down by the hull, close enough that he could reach out and touch Kallus if he wanted. There was an ugly bruise on Kallus’ forehead where he got clocked with the butt of a blaster, and a boot imprint on his hand, but he had a pretty serene expression for a guy who nearly got blown up mere hours ago.

“You alright?,” Zeb asked, hating that his voice wavered. He was trying his best to treat Kallus normally, like they hadn’t missed three years and lost body parts while at it, but right then, he couldn’t help but choke up. When they got to Lothal, he was going to wrap the human in a blanket and sit on him until the Empire lost or the world ended, whichever came first.

Kallus gave him a lopsided smile that was probably going for sly, but came out a little bit drunk. Zeb watched warily as the other man slowly forced his arm to cooperate, fishing a data spike out of his coat pocket.

Zeb felt his jaw fall. “Wha--?,” he cut himself off, a sudden surge of annoyance washing over him. “When you got knocked by that ‘trooper,” he said, mostly to himself. “You did that on _purpose_?”

“Mhm,” Kallus attempted to twirl the spike between his fingers, promptly dropping it onto his head. “Had to get down to the guard’s body.”

“That blow nearly killed you!,” Zeb growled. “What if he shot you instead?!”

Kallus shrugged, as much as one could when splayed on the floor, and winced at the reminder of his still-healing (and possibly broken-again) ribs. “You’d have saved me.”

“From a blaster to the face?!”

“Their commander recognised me,” Kallus seemed entirely unperturbed. “He would’ve taken me alive.”

Zeb did a quick mental calculation; the commander died in the blast, along with the three stormtroopers who came close enough to see Kallus’ face. It was all disconcertingly convenient.

“Karabast,” he muttered, running a hand down his face in sheer frustration. “It’s scary, what goes on it that head of yours.”

“Snow, mostly,” Kallus mumbled nonsensically, clearly struggling to stay awake. “Painkillers?”

Zeb dutifully went to find the med kit; by the time he returned with the syringe, Kallus had already passed out. He barely stirred when Zeb stabbed him in the arm with the needle, but his breathing soon evened out, the lingering tension in his shoulders easing off. Zeb briefly considered waking Lyste and shifting Kallus to the bench, but in the end, he just bundled his own cloak under Kallus’ head and went back to the pilot seat.

He was getting too old for this.

*

Zeb had been busy back when Kallus first properly defected. They were still running interference to cover the tracks to their then-new base on Yavin, setting up the supply lines and doing all the heavy lifting associated with moving house. So it wasn’t entirely out of the realm of possibility that, while he recalled Kallus’ questioning taking some time, he forgot exactly how _long_ it took.

Lyste’s been interviewed for hours at end, for days now. Between those, he was kept under house arrest at the shoebox of a flat Kallus kept for himself when he needed some space from the _Ghost_ crew; naturally, he couldn’t be left alone, so Kallus stayed there too. Zeb, who had to shirk some of the security training to go to Jelucan, couldn’t very well keep them company all day, and it made him feel... uneasy.

It’s not that he didn’t trust Lyste -- or, more accurately, that he didn’t trust Kallus trusting Lyste -- but something about the guy rubbed him the wrong way. That could have just been the fresh-off a Star Destroyer vibe, though, so he didn’t focus on it too much.

“It’s normal,” Kallus assured him, the half an hour they had for each other between Zeb’s shift with the security and Kallus’ physio. “He’s nervous, too, and that’s making the command suspicious. They want to be thorough.”

“You weren’t nervous?”

Kallus huffed a laugh. “I used to report to Thrawn. Draven’s good, but it’s hard to be intimidated after that.”

Zeb wanted to talk to him about how much he believed Lyste, and what would happen if the lieutenant turned out to be a plant, but it… it never came up. On their way to Jelucan, Kallus stuck to the professional ‘ifs’ and ‘maybes’ all intelligence staff seemed to be so fond of, but has since dropped the act. And, well, if he was wrong, the world wouldn’t end -- Lothal wasn’t exactly a secret to the Empire, and Lyste was never allowed near anything sensitive. Still, Zeb had been worrying for Kallus for a long time now. It wasn’t easy to just switch it off.

Then, there were the periods when Kallus was otherwise tied up, and Lyste not in questioning, when it fell to Zeb to babysit him. Kallus didn’t seem thrilled with the idea, just as he wasn’t a fan of anything that put Zeb too close to his former allegiances, but the base’s command figured that between being twice the size of the guy and successfully turning an Imperial before, he was the perfect candidate. Zeb could see the logic, in theory; it was the practice that he had a touch of a problem with.

Because Lyste wouldn’t. Shut. _Up_.

“It was very brave, what you did in Valentia,” he said for the hundredth time. “I don’t know if I’d make a very good warrior.”

“Good thing nobody expects you to,” Zeb grumbled. They were stuck in the shoebox for the time being, with the general market held in the city it was too crowded to risk an excursion. Zeb was trying to make food, with the sorry excuse for provisions Kallus kept at the place, while Lyste traipsed around the flat like a curious kitten.

“I thought I’d die,” Lyste rubbed his cheek. Zeb noticed it to be something of a nervous tic on the human’s part. “How do you deal with it, every day?”

This again. Lyste seemed to expect a heart-to-heart every five minutes, and it was _exhausting_.

“You do it often enough, I guess it stops being so exciting.”

“And Kallus-- I mean, he’s clearly not well. How does he keep going on like this?”

Zeb paused sorting the frozen perishables packets and gave the human a long glance. Lyste looked like he was completely unaware of it, fiddling with the temperature controls by the front door.

“He’s fine,” Zeb said, finally. He wasn’t really comfortable discussing Kallus’ health with this awkward creature. “You cold?”

Lyste jumped, finally looking around and at him. “Ah! No, no,” he rubbed the back of his neck. “I’m just-- it’s all so different. From the Empire, I mean.”

And, well, that made Zeb feel kind of horrible. It wasn’t exactly a surprise that a lifelong Imperial would need some time to adjust; even Kallus could be still caught smacking a broken piece of machinery with frustration, cursing the rebellion’s lack of resources and terrible organisation.

“I hear it grows on you,” he joked, trying not to wince at the near-blinding smile that earned him. “C’mon, let’s get some chow going.”

It quickly turned out that Lyste had never cooked anything in his life, so that at least had given them something productive to do.

And so it went, for nearly two weeks. Governor Trombetta seemed increasingly set on shoring up proper planet-wide defences, and Zeb had to wonder if something Lyste had said brought it on; whether he was right or not, it made his life a logistical nightmare, trying to juggle training recruits, looking after Jacen, guarding Lyste and scrounge up some time to see Kallus now and again. Call him sentimental, but he missed the human staying over at the Bridgers’ house. His bed felt too big without waking up to an occasional elbow to the face.

Still, the situation was temporary, and he could manage a little extra work now and then. Soon, he’d have enough Lothal citizens able to shoot a gun with any degree of accuracy, and he’d be able to pass some of the more tedious training onto them. Chava was reporting some progress in their little side project, too, and if Zeb caught himself daydreaming of dropping all of this to hell and taking Kallus to Lira San then and there, well, nobody had to know.

Of course, that was when the whole thing fell apart around his ears.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed it! I have no idea what I'm doing :) At this point I must have deleted more words than the fic's overall length.


	3. Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kallus is trying to be a functioning adult. The world conspires against him.

 

 

 

Kallus’ quality of life, not particularly high to begin with, had taken a significant dive ever since Lyste appeared in the picture.

Lothal wasn’t exactly a holding facility. They had a prison, sure, but it wasn’t the best place to put a guy you were already giving the benefit of a doubt. However, after three weeks of hosting his former colleague in what used to be just a place to crash when Zeb was away, Kallus was about ready to throw Lyste into a cell and conveniently misplace the key.

“I don’t think they believe me,” Lyste sighed as Kallus let him back into the flat. Without a cap to keep it in place, his hair was a mess, and Kallus had to wonder if he looked as goofy before he gave up on trying to tame his without the standard Imperial products. “Why else would they be asking the same questions, over and over again?”

“It’s standard procedure,” was all Kallus had to say to that. He _could_ explain that Lyste wasn’t doing himself any favours, sharing his frustrations with an intelligence officer, but he’s been trying to maintain at least a modicum of sympathy for the man. Being constantly stuck in a tiny apartment with him was wearing it down rather substantially.

“Did yours take this long?,” Lyste threw himself on the sofa like a sulky teenager. Kallus hadn’t spent a lot of time with him back in the day, but while the oversharing wasn’t new, this bottomless well of disgruntlement caught him by surprise. He wondered if this was why Lyste eventually decided to desert; less out of conviction, and more as a show of resentment.

“I acted as Fulcrum for a year before defecting,” he said instead. “And I’d ran into the _Ghost_ crew several times. They vouched for me.”

“I was never any good at networking,” Lyste said wistfully. He opened his mouth to say something else, then shut it with an audible ‘click’ and blushed.

Kallus, who, unfortunately, had by now gotten used to the man’s inappropriate curiosity, pinched the bridge of his nose and pretended to be busy unpacking groceries. Zeb seemed to pass his time with Lyste by the way of cooking lessons, and Kallus’ usually humble stocks were apparently hindering his efforts.

As expected, it took less than a few minutes for Lyste to gather up the courage he seemed to be lacking in any other part of his life.

“Were you and Zeb…?,” he asked. Kallus couldn’t see his face from his position in the kitchenette, but judging by the tone, Lyste was red enough to pass for a Dathomirian.

“I didn’t defect for love, if that’s what you’re asking,” he said, perhaps too sharply, but he’s been on the receiving end of enough doubtful looks in his Alliance career. “Zeb and I didn’t get together until rather recently.”

Which was at least partially a lie, but he didn’t feel like explaining years of longing to a man with emotional capacity of a teaspoon.

“It’s just--,” Lyste sat up, not quite looking at him. “It took me by surprise, to be perfectly honest.”

That made Kallus laugh. “You and me both,” he admitted. If anything, it made Lyste blush more deeply. Kallus frowned. “Is this a problem?”

“No, no!,” Lyste waved his hands for emphasis, but his face was still on fire. “Just surprising, that’s all!”

Kallus didn’t want to know what was so surprising about it; he’d assumed he heard it all back on Yavin, when people openly betted on his personal life at the same lunch table, but he had a hunch that Lyste would somehow manage to embarrass him anyway. He was like a younger sibling he never had, or wanted, and a lot less charming than Ezra ever was.

They were quiet for a while. Zeb was supposed to relieve him in a couple of hours, so he could attend his physio session, and Kallus hoped against hope this topic won’t come up again before that. He really should’ve known better.

“So,” Lyste appeared in the kitchen, making Kallus jump. He was starting to seriously consider giving in and getting an eye prosthetic the med droid was badgering him about. “You’re pretty serious about him, huh?”

He was going for nonchalant, and it went about as well as one could imagine. Kallus didn’t really have patience for the nonsense, though.

“Is this going somewhere?,” he asked. He’d been done with the groceries for a while now, his hands empty, and unable to quickly find another distraction. He had to deal with… whatever this was… straight on.

Lyste rubbed his cheek. “Just, well. You didn’t come across as--”

“Capable of emotional investment?,” Kallus cut in. This was one of the more irksome theories thrown around Yavin. Zeb used to be well-liked there.

Not what Lyste meant, though.

“--gay,” he said instead. “We were told to look up to you, you know. And the Empire--,” he interrupted himself, shaking his head.

Kallus rolled his remaining eye. This was going to get a lot more uncomfortable than he was willing to endure. “Not overly fond of that, yes. Get to the point.”

“Well, um. I assume it’s not… a problem. Here.”

It would be a comical scene, in any other circumstances; an ex-Imperial trying to convey to another, newer ex-Imperial, that in most of the galaxy, people have zero interest in what happens behind closed doors; or in a shadowy corner of a hangar, on some more lively occasions. Kallus, the fool that he’d been, used to believe that it was simply professional to… disengage, while deployed. His first week on Yavin was a bit of a shock. It certainly was an opportunity for self-actualisation.

These were not any other circumstances, though. This was Lyste being cagey, in a way that made Kallus’ skin crawl.

“Clearly,” he said. He shifted his weight, leaning his hip on the counter and crossing his arms. He didn’t like feeling this defensive in what was supposedly his home. Suddenly, he had an idea. “Why won’t you ask Zeb? He’s been a rebel much longer.”

Lyste’s hand immediately travelled to his cheek. “Uh, I don’t think he’d appreciate it.”

“Appreciate what, exactly?”

He should have seen it coming, really. Instead, he watched Lyste close in like in slow motion, his brain unable to connect the dots until the other man had already planted a kiss right on his lips.

Kallus had always prided himself on keeping a lid on his temper. This was not going to be an especially proud moment for him.

*

Yalagi found the whole thing hilarious, because of course she did.

“If it helps,” she offered, not an ounce of genuine sympathy in her voice, “I’m sure he was equally mortified.”

“I wouldn’t know,” Kallus admitted, trying to rub some feeling back into his shoulder. He didn’t realise how much mattress quality affected his recovery, and the bunk in his flat was far from top condition. “I called Zeb to come and take over, and came straight here.”

Nearly an hour early for his physio. The med droid had run a diagnostic before it believed he was actually there. It still hadn’t forgiven him for messing up his ribs on Jelucan, and Kallus had endured some very painful sessions to get them back in order.

Yalagi cocked her head to the side. “You left him alone?,” she frowned.

“He’s not technically a prisoner,” Kallus repeated, for what felt like a hundredth time. “And I was outside the door the entire time. It’s not like he could’ve left.”

Even just saying that seemed wrong. It must have shown on his face, because the good doctor smirked to herself and noted something down on her pad.

“And what did our favourite lasat make of the situation?,” she glanced at Kallus, who only then realised he’d been talking unprompted for a better part of fifteen minutes. In his defense, he was rather… irate. “Oh, captain. You haven’t told him?”

Kallus would have rolled his eyes, if only it still had any effect. “I’m sure Lyste will fill him in. He can’t seem to shut up to save his life.”

“Perhaps literally, in this case?”

If only, Kallus thought bitterly. “Unfortunately, Zeb seems to like the guy. He’s teaching him to cook.”

“Does that bother you?”

Kallus shrugged, belatedly remembering that any such movement soon after physio was going to result in agony. Once the flickers disappeared from in front of his eyes, he struggled to remember what the question was.

“Does it-- no, why would it?,” he didn’t fully managed to squash the annoyance out of his voice. “He’s going to need some life skills once he’s on his own.”

“And when will that be?”

He sighed. “Force only knows.”

Draven had been uncharacteristically vague last time he gave Kallus an update. To be fair, the general could hardly believe him to stay impartial, although after losing an eye for the cause, Kallus thought he’d earned a degree of trust with the command. Then again, it was widely accepted as a fact that Hera kept her whole merry band of misfits in check, and her being away most of the time probably didn’t help his case.

Yalagi rapped her fingers on the chair’s arm, her nails making an excruciatingly scratchy sound.

“This isn’t sustainable, captain,” she said, although the way she held his gaze seemed… weighted. “For the sake of your recuperation, I’d like to recommend that someone else takes full custody of lieutenant Lyste.”

Kallus could tell she expected him to argue. Maybe this was another one of her tests, maybe not, but he was well past prioritising the job over whatever semblance of life he’d carved out for himself out here. Besides, Lyste’s regrettable crush was a little too much for him to handle, for reasons he’d surely be able to articulate after drinking his liver away.

“Yes,” he said, watching Yalagi’s face for reaction. She remained carefully expressionless. “That’d be for the best.”

“I’ll get the command on it tonight,” she promised. “Now, onto more pleasant subject. How are the nightmares?”

Kallus could only shake his head. Yalagi recommended some sleep aid on their last session, but he couldn’t… He couldn't let himself be knocked out like this. He couldn’t relax with Lyste around, or, more accurately, without Zeb’s snoring to fill the darkness. He didn’t even have paperwork to occupy himself with on particularly bad nights, because Lyste hadn’t been cleared yet.

“Well, hopefully we can work on that once you’re in a more comfortable environment.”

Yalagi’s eyes were sharp behind her cheerful smile.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In my defense, there's another chapter coming right up.


	4. Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zeb's not having a great time.

 

 

 

Zeb’s day hadn’t gone according to plan, so far.

It was a good plan. He got up earlier, made Sabine pancakes and charmed her into agreeing to skip a tinkering session to accommodate some extra babysitting. Then, he used up his entire lunch break to track down AP-5 and convince him to spend an evening, well, also babysitting, although he didn’t phrase it as such. Only after that, he checked his dignity at the door to Trombetta’s office and went to beg the governor for a permission to leave Lyste with a droid for one night. Thankfully, Hera was away on assignment. He didn’t think he’d have lived down her presence.

All in all, things were shaping up. He didn’t have actual, well, plans, but he did secure an empty house for the evening and a couple of bottles of wine, which he thought were good enough on a short notice, and probably too good for Kallus’ single remaining kidney. Not that this would be an issue anymore, seeing as everything under the stars pointed at a rather disappointing night for one Zeb Orrelios.

“It’s a wonder you didn’t lose a tooth,” he whistled, passing Lyste an ice pack. The human held it up to his face gingerly, wincing at the sensation. “What happened?”

Here was the thing: Kallus was a bit of an idealist.

It was highly unlikely he realised it, but Zeb wasn’t an idiot. Under a whole lot of snark and cynicism, Kallus Believed. In the rebellion, in redemption, and in stuff generally turning out alright. He wouldn’t have lived to be a pain in Zeb’s ass, was that not the case. But where Kallus was an idealist, Zeb was first and foremost a skeptic, because people tended to be assholes no matter how much you were willing to help them. And Lyste? Lyste never stopped setting off all of his internal alarms, despite the kicked puppy routine.

“He didn’t tell you?,” the lieutenant asked, a little muffled through the cloth covering the ice pack. “Ha. No, of course he didn’t.”

Zeb, who had to skip on a meeting he promised to be on to get to the shoebox two hours ahead of schedule, gave up on trying to extract an explanation from Kallus as soon as he’d seen him. The man was fuming, and breaking protocol by leaving his charge unattended; he’d bitten out some terse excuse and stomped off without so much as a ‘good luck’. Zeb hadn’t seen him that angry in years.

“Right,” he said, forcing his ears to relax. “Wanna elaborate?”

“I-- ah, I shouldn’t…”

Zeb closed his eyes. Exhaled. Opened them again. “Yogar. We both know you’re dying to tell me. Just spit it out.”

Lyste, by no means a short man, visibly shrank down under his glare.

“You’re not going to like it,” he squeaked out.

“I’ll be the judge of that.”

There was some more metaphorical thumb-twiddling, some sneaky glances at the door, like Kallus was about to burst through and knock him out proper, then, finally:

“He kissed me. Alexandr-- he kissed me, and when I asked what about you, he--,” Lyste swallowed nervously. “Please don’t hit me.”

Zeb’s stomach turned to ice.

Kallus was many things, and Zeb didn’t pretend to know everything about him. He lied, when he thought it was necessary, had some truly peculiar ideas on personal boundaries, and too often assumed that Zeb would just read his mind and know what was going through it. Kallus was tired, and angry, and often in pain, and sometimes took it out on those around him, because two decades on a Star Destroyer don’t help in developing healthy coping mechanisms -- not that Zeb was one to talk. Lyste knew all these things, because they were out there for everyone to see, and for some bizarre reason thought that Zeb never bothered to delve deeper than that.

That Zeb would just… believe a vague accusation. That Zeb was just some sort of possessive, egotist prick who’d lose his mind at a mere implication that his partner of choice might be unfaithful, without considering what he actually knew about said partner.

Well, Zeb was none of these things. Zeb was, in fact, suddenly aware that only someone running off an Imperial script would ever assume that he was.

_You ratty bastard_ , he thought, hot tendrils of rage quickly melting off the paralysis.

“Zeb, I’m so sorry.”

Lyste sounded so sincere, with a great big bruise blooming on his jaw and Kallus’ spare civilian outfit hanging off his shoulders. Zeb wanted to strangle him, but for now, he’d have to play into expectations.

“It’s not your fault,” he forced himself to say through gritted teeth. “Thanks for telling me.”

“I won’t tell anyone,” the human promised solemnly, placing a reassuring hand on Zeb’s arm, like he had any right to touch him. “I don’t want any trouble. Just thought-- I just thought you should know.”

Zeb’s mind was working on overdrive. He turned away from Lyste, leaning on the kitchen counter. He needed to tell someone. He needed to _do_ something, but couldn't risk the Imperial realising that he didn't take the bait.

Karabast. A kriffing _Imperial_ , sniffing around their home for weeks!

“I need a moment,” he mumbled out. “I'll be outside.”

Lyste nodded, all sympathetic. Zeb nearly ran for the door.

Out of sight, he leaned on the door and swore in every language he knew. It took all of the self-control he possessed not to lay Lyste out then and there, take him to the lock-up and let someone with less personal involvement figure it out.

And in the extremely unlikely event of Lyste telling the truth…

He ran a hand down his face, growling at himself. Lyste was lying. He _knew_ Lyste was lying. The human could be lying for a number of reasons unrelated to him being an Imperial plant, but Zeb conveniently couldn’t think of any.

There was a tiny, insignificant, old as hell part of Zeb that wore a uniform and had some embarrassingly backward views. It liked to chime up, sometimes, about how he wasn’t doing this whole thing with Kallus properly, and that if it ever came to bite him in the ass, this would be how. Zeb could usually shut it up just by asking himself how in the Force was he supposed to do things Properly with a non-lasat. Unsurprisingly, it wasn’t working so well just at the moment.

He took a deep breath, then another. He could do this. He’d take Lyste to the security office, pass him onto the newbies to look after. Nobody had to get hurt. He started to message Sabine, because if someone _did_ , he’d like to have some sort of back up ready.

When the door suddenly opened behind him and he felt a prick of a needle in his neck, he had just enough time to feel vindicated before everything went black.

*

By the time his head cleared enough to catch him up on the situation, Zeb had been tied up like a parcel and thrown into the back of a cargo speeder.

Now, Lyste might have been a two-faced, manipulative little twerp, but unless he’s been secretly working out over the last few weeks, he wouldn’t have been able to drag Zeb across the corridor, let alone down the stairs and into a speeder. Which meant he had accomplices, which meant their intel really screwed this one up. Zeb briefly entertained the image of telling Draven exactly that, and then the headache kicked in.

The cuffs binding his limbs were wookie-proof, because at least _someone_ did their job right in this scenario.

“He’s awake,” he heard a muffled voice. Female, humanoid, sounding rather anxious. “Give him another dose.”

The other voice, somewhat harder to identify, snorted. “These things ain’t cheap, princess.”

“I’ve seen that beast brain stormtroopers with his bare hands,” hissed the female voice, and Zeb rolled his eyes. Great. He hadn’t been compared to an animal in a while.

“And I’ve delivered whole clans of wookies without incident before. Relax, enjoy the ride.”

There was no third voice, no Lyste. Which could mean anything; he was just quiet, or stayed behind in the flat. Maybe his associates figured he was too much trouble and offed him before hitting the road -- one could only hope.

Zeb started to plan. He wasn’t dead yet.


	5. Five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stuff goes down.

 

 

 

His flat was on the first floor of a repurposed Imperial office building, which felt appropriate at the time. It was about halfway between the Bridger’s house and the clinic, and Kallus kept paying for it mostly as a safety measure he no longer thought he needed. There were no photographs on the walls, no fake plants that Sabine insisted on keeping, no random toys posing tripping hazards on the floor. No drains clogged with purple fur. And now it had Lyste in it, too.

Standing in front of the entrance, Kallus decided right then and there that he was going to get rid of the place as soon as possible.

He was tired. He was tired all the time, in a way that felt wholly unfamiliar and only natural at once. For a few months, it wasn’t so hard to deal with, because Zeb was an excellent distraction even without the added headache of Jacen. But the last weeks proved beyond doubt that, whether Kallus liked it or not, he wasn’t quite alright.

He wanted to trust Lyste. He had no reasons not to, aside from some off-hand remarks thrown by Zeb and Draven’s radio silence. He didn’t want to make the man feel like he did, his first days at Yavin, expecting a disgruntled rebel to stab him at any given time and knowing he’d deserve it. On the other hand…

Kallus opened the door to a blaster pointed at his face.

“Hands where I can see them,” Lyste said, his own hands trembling but expression unusually confident. If anything, he looked-- excited, despite the dark bruise on his jaw. Kallus felt a cold shiver run down his back.

“You know,” he said, raising his hands in front of him, “I was just thinking about you.”

“Funny how that works,” Lyste smiled unpleasantly. “We’re going to take a walk.”

Kallus was exhausted and in pain, but Lyste was always more of an admin material than a soldier. His stance was all wrong, and elbows locked; a push in the right place, and he’d be shooting that blaster into his own foot. Still, there were other issues to resolve first.

“Where’s Zeb?”

Lyste cocked his head. “You’re not really in position to be asking questions.”

“I can strangle you with your own shoelaces,” Kallus said, because he could. That was, perhaps, not the right thing to say, because the dark amusement in Lyste’s eyes only intensified.

“Ah, yes. I’m sure you can,” he spat out. “But if you want your alien to keep all of his extremities, you’re going to do exactly what I say.”

While not impossible, it was extremely unlikely that Lyste managed to get a jump on Zeb on his puny lonesome. Which meant he had allies, who could, indeed, be currently holding Zeb captive. Kallus had left the flat nearly three hours ago; the lasat could be off-planet by now, if they acted quickly.

“And how do I know he’s still alive?”

“You’re just going to have to trust me.”

The sentiment was absurd enough to make them both laugh. Kallus felt bile rise in his throat.

“Why now?,” he asked. He remembered Yalagi’s questions, and Draven’s ambiguous messages, paranoia kicking in full force. “You could’ve killed me many times over already.”

“I had some work to do, first,” Lyste shrugged. “And I’m not here to kill you, anyway. Although I’m sure the Emperor will find a way to make your death a particularly painful example.”

Kallus wasn’t so certain that the Emperor even knew who he was, but he could think of several high-ranking ISB officers who definitely had some novel interrogation ideas stored away just for him. The ones he didn’t space on Iastea, at least.

“If you’re quite finished plotting,” Lyste waved the blaster in a shooing motion. “Off we go. You’re taking me out to see the sights. I’m going to shoot anyone who so much as looks suspicious, so don’t get any ideas”

Kallus took the liberty of assuming this wasn't a serious request. He was starting to get angry, and he'd always had his best ideas when angry.

*

Driving a speeder so soon after physio was torturous. Kallus couldn't really afford a thought to an escape plan if he didn't want to crash, and wondered if Lyste did it on purpose. He'd seen Kallus stiff and crotchety after his sessions, after all.

Lyste, unfortunately, was smart enough to put the blaster away during the journey; he produced a knife instead, sticking it into Kallus’ back in a clumsy but effective threat. They were going out into the steppe, towards the mountains. Kallus was dimly remembering a patrol schedule Zeb'd been slaving over last week, hoping that it's gone live already.

Zeb would never let him hear the end of it. He had doubts about Lyste from the start, and it was plain to see for anyone who'd known him for longer than a minute. Now, Kallus’ main concern was getting the lasat out of hot water -- and _not_ returning under the Empire's care, if he could help it. He'd survived a lot in the past, but there was a limit.

There was also a small capsule hidden in his gum. After the last time, he wasn't leaving the intel in his head up to the Imperial interrogators, or life to persecutors. That was plan D, though. Kallus was prepared, not suicidal.

“Park behind that rock,” came the command from over his shoulder.

Safely out of view, Lyste unholstered his blaster and threw a pair of handcuffs at Kallus. It wasn’t the make used by Lothal’s security or even the rebel forces, but Kallus was familiar with them anyway. The Imperial models tended to be slightly more difficult to break out of, in his experience. Lyste didn’t even check if he’d clicked them into place properly, and it was hard to tell if the man was getting overconfident or just nervously forgetful.

“Looks like we have to wait a little while,” he said, rubbing his cheek. “Sit down and don’t even breathe suspiciously. I want to deliver you alive, but a body will do just as well.”

Kallus figured this was as good an opportunity as any to start annoying the man into making a mistake.

“You’ve run out of time,” he guessed. “That kiss-- you couldn’t have thought it would work. Not after living with us for weeks.”

Lyste glared. “I followed my orders.”

“Why?”

Lyste bristled at the question. Granted, Kallus wasn’t really interested in what drove his former colleague to partake in this charade. But he wanted to know who did give him the orders, who masterminded the whole thing, and he was going to find out before the day was out.

“Why? Because I’m not a traitorous scum, that’s why.”

“The Empire doesn’t care about you, Yogar. I think you know that.”

“Screw the Empire,” Lyste growled, pushing the muzzle of his blaster into Kallus’ bandaged eye. “You betrayed _me_. You destroyed my life, and now I’m going to return the favour.”

Kallus held his gaze. He didn’t have Zeb’s practice in looming ominously, but he did command a Star Destroyer once upon a time. Lyste did his best, but his shoulders shook with the effort of not backing away. Then, his comm crackled, just loud enough for Kallus to hear:

“ _ETA T+6_.”

They were about to have company. Lyste nearly sighed with relief, and just as the tension started leaving his body, Kallus grabbed the blaster and elbowed him in the face.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So these were some fairly short chapters, but at least three in a row, eh? 
> 
> Find me at illputaspellonyou on tumblr if you want to chat, I'm getting somewhat too much into Critical Role and I want to finish this before I switch fandoms.


	6. Six

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zeb's no wilting flower.

Zeb hadn’t survived this long by letting himself be passively kidnapped. True, half the time his efforts were powered by the knowledge that Hera and Sabine would have his ass if he didn’t try hard enough, but he liked to think that he had enough of an initiative on his own, thank you very much.

It took precisely no time at all for him to figure that he was in fairly deep. He was bound and gagged in a moving vehicle, with an Imperial eyeing him over her shoulder with the kind of mistrust born only out of hearing too many exciting stories by the water cooler, and a guy who was so clearly a slaver it was a wonder he hadn’t chosen to wear boots made out of wookie hide. Zeb managed to hoist himself over enough to be able to look at them, which made the girl immediately go for her blaster. She’d have probably shot him right then and there, too, but the wookie wrangler snorted an ugly laugh and slapped the blaster’s sights away from his head.

“Calm down, miss. We’ve got a deal.”

“We’ve _got_ to be more careful,” the woman hissed. “Haven’t you read the briefing?”

“Oh, I’ve skimmed through it,” the slaver shrugged. His eyes haven’t left the road once. “Dangerous, caution, blah blah blah. They’re all dangerous. Keeps me in business, that.”

Zeb resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Still, overconfident was good. He could probably provoke overconfident into cocky, even if it cost him some burned fur. What he couldn’t do, though, was move. Or talk. Provoking anything more than a cramp was going to be challenging in the circumstances.

Still, he was nothing if not adaptable. Wookies were a lot hairier than lasat, and the bindings had a little bit of give to accommodate the extra fur -- not a lot, but enough to work with, or at least seem like he had enough to work with. Humans tended to underestimate prehensile feet, too, and Imperials in general liked to forget that a non-human had enough brain cells to rub together a solution to a problem.

“That’s the signal,” the woman said, an edge of apprehension colouring her voice. “Give the beast another dose, now.”

The slaver grumbled, but dutifully put the speeder on autopilot and squeezed himself through to the back. He was a large guy, not young, but far from frail either. He produced a syringe from one of his many pockets, and took an electric rod out of a harness attached to his thigh. He waved it in front of Zeb’s nose cheerfully.

“No funny business, pal--”

\--but Zeb was already throwing his body up and towards him, slamming the man to the ground.

The pain from the electric current was excruciating, and still barely a cattle prod in comparison to what he’s tasted in the past. He managed to twist his feet enough to grab at the slaver’s wrist and snap, the syringe was rolling on the floor and under Zeb’s back…

It was all a bit of a blur, after that. The slaver howled in rage, repeatedly smacking Zeb with the rod and unwittingly giving him moments of respite from the pain. The woman was screaming, too, on all fours searching for the syringe, now safely tucked away between Zeb’s bound hands. When the slaver grabbed him by the neck and tried to pin him to the ground, face down, he thrust his arms out and felt the needle hit soft flesh.

Zeb was one incredibly lucky bastard. The guy was decked out in thick leather head to toe, but somehow, the syringe managed to pierce through the fabric of his trousers, and soon enough, his eyes rolled into his skull, and he fell backwards like a sack of potatoes. The woman jumped to grab the electric rod, but Zeb tripped her up, and she went flying head first into the speeder’s cargo door. She slid down slowly, and didn’t get back up.

The silence that followed, broken up only by the occasional murmur of the speeder’s engine, would be a lot more satisfying if Zeb couldn’t smell burnt fur. He laid there for a couple more minutes, trying to catch his breath through the gag and gather his wits, until he felt the speeder come to a stop.

It must have reached its automated destination. Zeb dragged himself towards the back hatch -- the girl was breathing, if barely, a big, dark bruise blossoming on her temple -- and listened.

At first, there was nothing; nobody looking through the windshield, at least not from an angle where they could spot Zeb in his dark corner. Then, he heard steps, quiet and careful, but between the heavy boots and an obvious limp, it would’ve taken a much worse hit to the head for Zeb to miss them. He tensed, ready to pounce as soon as the door opened--

\--revealing Kallus, pointing a blaster at him.

“Zeb,” he breathed, dropping the gun immediately and going to remove the gag from his mouth. Zeb’s head was spinning, but he managed a dopey grin. “You sure know how to make an entrance.”

“Just for you,” he muttered, resting his forehead on Kallus’ arm as it reached around his neck, checking for injuries. “What’d it look like?”

Kallus scoffed a laugh, brushing his fingers against what felt like a particularly nasty burn. “Like a cargo speeder slowly rolling into a stop, screaming. I’m sure there’s a metaphor in it, somewhere.”

There was a broken-off handcuff dangling off his wrist, and Zeb was unpleasantly reminded of slightly more pressing matters.

“Help me out of these,” he said, “and let’s get this show on the road.”

Kallus seemed to only just then notice the bodies lying on the floor of the speeder. His mouth pressed into a thin line, and he picked up the blaster--

“Kal,” Zeb growled, unable to do much else but talk, and recognising the expression. He hadn’t seen it in a good long while. “Kal. _Alex_. Get these cuffs off me, now.”

“They were going to sell you,” Kallus’ voice was even and distant, like he was telling Zeb about the weather.

“Yeah, well, that was clearly a terrible plan,” and one that was going to keep Zeb awake at night for some time, but that was neither here nor there. “Kal, look at me. They’re out cold, alright? They can’t hurt us.”

It was certainly an experience to see Kallus’ remaining eye flash with a whole series of emotions, from anger, through resignation and to shame. Zeb’s heart skipped a beat when he climbed into the speeder, but to his relief, it was only to fish out a magnet card from the slaver’s pocket. Soon enough, he was rubbing life back into his extremities, stretching his back out into the darkening sky while Kallus put the bindings on the Imperial woman.

“Lyste’s in the tall grass, over there,” Kallus pointed out, and Zeb dutifully went to retrieve the body. He was, in all honesty, surprised to find the man still alive, although his face was a bloody mess. Zeb unceremoniously threw him into the speeder.

Soon enough, he was driving it through the steppe and towards the gleaming spires of Capitol City. Kallus, who didn’t seem half as beaten up but somehow in an even worse shape than he was, pretended not to be dozing off in the passenger seat.

“D’you need a medic?,” Zeb asked, mostly to break the silence. He knew how these things went; they’ll be so tied up in security reviews after this mess they won’t see each other for days. Kallus will likely keep going out of sheer spite until he drops in an interview, and only then will anyone notice that he’s been slowly turning black and blue. 

Kallus, predictably, gave him a side-eye. “I’m fine.”

“We’ve been kidnapped,” Zeb said, and he could keep his tone reasonable only because he was _exhausted_. “I wouldn’t say no to some bacta, to be honest.”

Something softened in Kallus immediately, as if all that anger burning away inside of him was suddenly snuffed away just by Zeb’s sentiment. “Are you… are you alright?”

He shrugged, feeling the muscle pull in his shoulders. “I’ll feel better once these three are locked up.”

“Two,” Kallus corrected him, looking over his shoulder at the heap of bodies in the back of the speeder. “The big guy isn’t breathing.”

“Oh,” Zeb didn’t feel even remotely guilty. “I guess a wookie tranquiliser is too much for humans.”

“One day, you will have to tell me your version of the events,” Kallus actually yawned, without looking embarrassed about it for once.

“One day,” Zeb agreed, and let the human slip into blissful unconsciousness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AYyyy it only took a month this time! Your comments are fantastic and really keep me going, I hope you enjoyed this one too xxx


	7. Seven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kallus takes a crash course in futility of networking.

Once again, Kallus was at the top of the main spire, leaning against the far wall as two holograms and a somewhat irate governor argued his fate. Hera wasn’t yelling, but it was a close thing, as Draven refused to apologise for withholding intel. Trombetta had seemingly forgotten Kallus was even in the room, as he explained to the world at large why it’s only natural he didn’t trust a former Imperial with sensitive information.

 

“ _This is-- I can’t believe--_ ,” Hera pinched the bridge of her nose. “ _Your_ chief of security _vouches for him!_ ”

 

“Forgive me for assuming Orrelios might be compromised,” Trombetta snarled, pacing around his office like a caged animal. “When they all dropped off the face of the planet, I thought--!”

 

“ _You decided to forgo my strict instructions,_ ” even Draven’s temper was beginning to get the better of him. “ _It’s inexcusable, and would have cost us dearly have Kallus and Orrelios been any less experienced.”_

 

“You didn’t exactly give me instructions, did you?,” Trombetta fumed. “I can’t run a whole planet on your say so!”

 

Kallus couldn’t bring himself to listen any longer. Nobody had actually briefed him on how, exactly, did Lyste’s little team manage to infiltrate Lothal, but between Zeb’s silent return from processing them and this unproductive meeting, he’d managed to gleam out the fine details.

 

If any of the three noticed that he’d left the room, they didn’t care enough to ask him back in.

 

After all this, Kallus had expected to be angry. He had been furious -- insides on fire, face red and tears in his eyes furious -- at the betrayal and humiliation he felt once the Imperial files he’d been digging into started to prove an annoyingly confident lasat right. Back then, he dealt with it the only way he knew how; by exhausting himself into oblivion, either through work or training.

 

The same rage burned through him as he took the first swing at Thrawn. He screamed through the torture at Iastea, less in pain and more in fury, at his helplessness, and at his failure. It fueled him through many days otherwise lost in the haze of hunger and injury, through inciting a riot and through setting fire to the engine room of the pirate ship. It carried him through following months of recuperation, through his mandatory therapy, and through suspicions of being set aside.

 

Finally, the embers had gone cold. Perhaps Lyste would rest easier knowing that he did manage to achieve _something_ ; that his little mission showed Kallus’ career in the rebellion to be a farce, and that his Imperial past was always going to catch up to him, one way or another.

 

Lyste thought small, blinded by righteous anger, but whoever approved of his going undercover succeeded at something much bigger. They’ve sown a seed of mistrust between Kallus and the Alliance command, and rendered him too numb to try and repair the damage.

 

Sabine found him much later, sitting on a half-built wall in front of the med centre, long gone stiff with cold and lack of movement.

 

“What a pair you make,” she muttered under her breath, pulling herself up to sit next to him. “Hera said you walked out of the debrief.”

 

“Wasn’t much of a debrief,” Kallus shrugged. “Pointing fingers, more like.”

 

She kept silent for a little while, perhaps expecting him to elaborate. “You’re taking it rather well.”

 

He shot her a glance, but she wasn’t looking his way, fiddling with a loose thread on her sleeve.

 

“Do you mean the ridiculous kidnapping attempt,” he asked, “or that all it took to cast doubt on all my work with the rebellion was a-- a Lyste?”

 

“Both, I guess.” There were dark circles under her eyes. Kallus supposed she didn’t get much sleep, either, between their unfortunate misadventure and taking care of Jacen. “Somebody will always have it out for you, you know.”

 

“Yes,” he agreed. “I’m beginning to realise.”

 

“Well,” Sabine was quickly growing uncomfortable, but soldiered on anyway. “If it helps, I don’t think anything could change Zeb’s mind. About you.”

 

When they first met, Sabine was barely of age. Kallus’ had been privy to her insights only for a short time, altogether, but she was proving to grow into a formidable woman indeed. A woman whose loyalty belonged to her family, first, politics be damned. He couldn’t help but smile, if only a little.

 

“Thank you,” he said. “It does help.”

 

She nodded sharply, clearly relieved that Kallus seemed to have grasped the weight of her words without needing clarification, and desperately looked around for anything to change the topic to.

 

“You got any therapy scheduled?,” she asked, inclining her head towards the entrance to the med bay, where a droid was helping a pilot hop over to the speeder on her new prosthetic leg.

 

Kallus didn’t; he doubted he’d ever see Yalagi again, whether he wanted to or not. He should at the very least continue the physical therapy, but there was one thing he could fix fairly easily, at only the cost of a deeply-ingrained prejudice it was a high time he got himself rid of.

 

“No,” he said. “I think it’s time I got my eye sorted out.”

 

*

 

Kallus didn’t remember getting home, but that’s where he woke up.

 

The Bridgers’ house, specifically. In Zeb’s room, and the bed he hadn’t seen in way too long. He was dressed down to his underwear, his clothes neatly folded on the bedside table. There was a note, too, and it took Kallus entirely too long to realise he could actually read it without lifting it up to his nose.

 

_You kriffing idiot_ , said the note, in a large scrawl of someone only used to typing in common. _Back in the morning. STAY PUT._

 

Naturally, Kallus assumed the last was less of a demand and more of a suggestion, and hauled himself out off bed. It was a rather ungraceful affair; he was used to compensating the lack of depth perception, and felt too long for his limbs now.

 

Upon examination in a sliver of a mirror Zeb and he used for general hair maintenance, he looked… eerily normal. Despite the droid’s bewilderment, Kallus had declined any cybernetic upgrades, and the prosthetic was indistinguishable from his other eye. There was some swelling from the surgery, but nothing that a couple of hours with an ice pack wouldn’t get rid of. It was all somewhat underwhelming, really.

 

A long time ago, Kallus had vowed never to agree to prosthetics. He’d seen it go all sort of ways in the Empire; once you upgrade an arm, what’s wrong with upgrading a leg, too? The med droids didn’t always ask, either, assuming consent. Soon enough, you ended up less human and more machine, and the brass treated you accordingly. He’d known-- he’d _seen_ that it wasn’t the case in the Alliance, and still half-expected to wake up from the procedure looking like Darth Vader. But Kallus’ new eye was just an eye. Not the best quality, and certainly not a cutting edge technology, but provided he avoided any more ice picks to the face, he’d continue having two normal, working eyes. Which was all he ever needed from them, really.

 

It was five in the morning; Kallus had apparently slept for nearly 16 hours. He took the time to get dressed before leaving the room, because none of the _Ghost_ crew kept anything approaching a regular schedule, and he wasn’t completely uncivilised. Yet.

 

The house was dark and quiet. Just as Kallus poured himself some caf, the door to Jacen’s room creaked open, revealing a bundle of blankets with a green tuft of hair sticking out at the top.

 

“Sorry, did I wake you?”

 

Jacen rubbed at his eyes with one tiny fist, the other gripping a stuffed wolf. No hand was seemingly required to hold up the blankets, which was one of those things that simply happened around this kid and were better not questioned. “I heard mum,” he mumbled sleepily. “Where is she?”

 

“I think that might have just been a dream,” Kallus said, as gently as he was capable of. He’d never been good with kids, although Jacen proved to be fairly easy to handle. “Do you want some milk?”

 

“No, I heard her,” Jacen insisted. “Can we call her, please?”

 

Kallus wasn’t sure what the procedure was for such requests, but before he even managed to formulate a response, Zeb burst through the door, wild-eyed and breathing hard.

 

“Good,” he gasped. “You’re dressed. Let’s-- let’s go.”

 

*

 

Watching the second Death Star blow out of the sky, Kallus felt strangely empty.

 

He was alone. He got knocked out in the skirmish, his prosthetic eye giving out after a blow to the side of his face and leaving him blind to the following attack. He had a vague memory of someone dragging him out of the way, and by the time he came to, the battle was over.

 

He wondered if the Emperor managed to evacuate. If _Ghost_ got shot out of the sky by a lucky TIE fighter. If the Mandalorians got through in time. If the Jedi survived the fight with Darth Vader. He wondered if this was all over, one way or another.

 

Eventually, he gathered enough willpower to drag himself up. A cursory inventory of various pains and aches suggested broken ribs -- Kallus would really like to get through a fight without breaking those, one day -- and possibly some torn muscle, but nothing life-threatening. His eye was probably a horror show, and there was a whole lot of blood dried on his face from a cut above his eyebrow, but that too was an easy enough fix, provided there was any bacta left by the time he hobbled over to the camp.

 

Which took a good while. He had to keep stopping to catch his breath; at the very least, the smoking remnants of a moon-sized space base provided something to look at above all the trees. He could hear the general sounds of a whole lot of people cheering, but with Kallus’ head swimming as it was, they seemed to come from all directions at once.

 

His already limited vision was going seriously blurry by the time he stumbled upon the first sentries. They were Twi’lek, both barely of age by the look of it, sharing a bottle of something and paying no attention to their surroundings whatsoever; Kallus had to forcibly stop himself from writing them up in a mental assessment.

 

“ _Stang_ ,” one of them cursed, jumping up to her feet as soon as she noticed Kallus hovering behind her. Too late, if he were a stormtrooper, not that it mattered now. “Where did _you_ come from?!”

 

Kallus opened his mouth, and, to his surprise, found himself unable to speak.

 

*

 

In a great feat of karmic injustice, Kallus spent the victory celebration hooked up to an IV and with strict orders to stay still. There wasn’t enough bacta to go around, priority given to grenade and blaster wounds, but while most of the injured were let out again with a stern look and painkillers, Kallus needed to wait for a droid to free up and extract his crushed eyeball before pieces went wandering after an ill-timed blink.

 

Kallus’ comm link was probably being swallowed by undergrowth somewhere, and he didn’t recognise anyone in the med bay. Going undercover for three years had the unpleasant effect of finding himself somewhat isolated from the ever-expanding intelligence team, and with Draven holding back, there wasn’t enough time start putting names to all the new faces. It didn’t help that, apparently, an errant rib was trying to dig into one of his lungs, and so asking for assistance became impossible without some entirely unsightly wheezing involved.

 

Listening to the gossip, he figured that Hera must have survived; there were only so many insane Twi’Lek pilots in the rebellion. Kallus vaguely recalled that Rex was supposed to be piloting the _Phantom_ , and it was unlikely that Hera would’ve let him get shot down. Clan Wren, lacking the fleet to substantially assist the rebellion, had only sent several small ground teams, and he didn’t doubt for a second that Sabine was among them.

 

There was no word on Zeb.

 

Kallus didn’t protest when the command decided to put them on different strike teams. They had similar skill sets in combat, after all. Zeb took the order with considerably less grace. They haven’t seen each other since a brief goodbye before boarding different spaceships, and the sour feeling gathering low in Kallus’ stomach wasn’t exactly helping him feel better about it.

 

He’d said: ‘take care’. In retrospect, it sounded idiotic. Zeb didn’t say anything, his mouth set into an unhappy line, and Kallus would’ve given anything to get another chance at that goodbye.

 

The native species, creepy little creatures that reminded him entirely too much of Chopper in terms of murderous glee, started handing out cups of something sweet-smelling and tasting like bantha-tranquiliser. Initially distrustful, Kallus was more than happy to down several of them once a med droid started spreading out field surgery tools in front of him and regretfully explaining that they were running low on anaesthetic.

 

After it was done, he was given an eyepatch, a blanket, and another cup of booze, and left to his own devices. By the time someone had a bright idea to do a roll call of the injured, he was barely awake.

 

“Captain?,” someone grabbed his shoulder. “Are you captain Kallus?”

 

He shrugged the hand off, the fog in his head making it difficult to focus his remaining eye on the face in front of him. A zabrak, or a human with an unfortunate hairstyle choice. Navy lieutenant, if he was counting the dots on his coat right.

 

“I’ll take that as a yes,” the young man grinned. “They’re looking for you down in the main camp. Think you can get there on your own?”

 

And so Kallus discovered that there were, in fact, three separate camps, and he managed to land himself in the one furthest away from the former Imperial base. He briefly entertained the idea of actually trying to make his own way there, before sharp pain in his chest reminded him to stop being a moron.

 

“Doubtful,” he managed to grit out. The zabrak only just then gave him a proper once-over, and whistled through his teeth.

 

“Yeah, no, fair enough,” he said. “I’ll just-- tell them I found you, okay?”

 

Kallus wanted to ask, _tell who_ , but the zabrak was gone before he gathered enough air for it. Unwilling to let himself dwell on it, he pulled the blanket tighter around his shoulder and settled in for a nap.

 

*

 

He woke up on the _Ghost._

 

Falling asleep and then waking up in a different place had been slowly becoming a bad habit of his, even back before Iastea. He’d drop at some point during the day, courtesy of painkillers and nights interrupted with nightmares, and Zeb would move him -- from his desk, or the shuttle, or the kitchen table, and to whatever sleeping arrangement he happened to have at the time. So while it was annoyingly disorienting, waking up somewhere he didn’t go to sleep at was a surefire sign that Zeb was about.

 

Killer headache aside, Kallus immediately felt better about the state of the world. After all, it had Zeb in it.

 

He allowed himself to float in that certainty for some time, before the discomfort of memories let itself known. The droid was none too gentle setting his ribs, and it had to remove the eye prosthetic entirely. The pain was beginning to elbow its way through the haze of sleep. He’d need to find some painkillers, if he was to be of any use.

 

...Use to whom? Palpatine was dead; the war hasn’t ended, but the Grand Vizier was far from a feared leader. He wasn't even passably competent. The Empire would fracture soon enough. Perhaps Trombetta was right, after all. The Alliance will need diplomats and relief workers, not spies with Imperial past.

 

Kallus wasn’t even over his last existential crisis. He wasn’t ready for another one quite yet.

 

The door opened, revealing AP-5 with a bundle of clothes in his arms. “Oh,” he said, deadpan. “You are awake.”

 

“More or less,” Kallus forced himself to sit up, his body protesting every inch of the way. The bundle was unceremoniously dropped into his lap; it was his spare uniform. With some alarm, he realised he was still wearing pieces of his armour; the shins of his trousers were still stained with mud.

 

It wasn’t Zeb who brought him onto _Ghost_.

 

Kallus squashed the panic rising in his throat. “What did I miss?,” he asked. Surely, AP-5 wouldn’t be so-- _stoic_ , if anything happened?

 

“The Emperor is dead,” the droid said. “Ah, you are not referring to your terrible performance during the battle.”

 

And then it just… stood there, silently. Kallus honestly missed how inconsequential droids were in the Empire. You couldn’t be insulted by sarcastic insubordination, if you refused to notice it.

 

“Everyone is having breakfast in the galley,” AP said, finally, clearly disappointed that Kallus didn’t take the bait. “They sent me to get you, as I do not require sustenance.”

 

Well. At least, they didn’t send Chopper.

 

Kallus quickly changed into the fresh clothes, carelessly enough that he had to spend a minute waiting for the white spots in front of his eyes to disappear. He could walk fairly easily, if he remembered not to turn his torso or bend, or breathe too deeply. As he made his way to the galley, hearing quiet murmurs of conversation, there was only one, very determined thought bouncing around his brain.

 

Force, let Zeb be there.

 

“Alex!,” Sabine hip-checked him from the side as soon as he crossed the hatchway, knocking him off balance and into the wall. “Crap, you alright?”

 

But Kallus didn’t much care to berate her, because Zeb was sat at the table, covered in bacta patches, but alive. He gave an amused, if exhausted, chuckle at Kallus’ grand entrance, his plate of waffles curiously untouched.

 

Sabine was apologising, and Hera was scolding her, and Rex was laughing his ass off, and Kallus paid absolutely no attention to any of them. Everything was somewhat blurred at the edges. He was peripherally aware of the noise dying down around him, of Zeb asking him a question, and finally, Rex dragging him up by the elbow.

 

“--alright?,” Hera was holding his other arm.

 

“I--,” his head was full of cotton. “We’re alive,” he said. Suddenly, it all seemed overwhelmingly impossible. He looked around the concerned faces. “The Emperor is dead, and we’re alive?”

 

He might have laughed, it was all too fuzzy to tell. Finally, Zeb hauled himself up from his seat, grabbed Kallus by the back of his neck and walked them both back to their bunk.

 

“I didn’t know if you survived,” Kallus found himself saying as the door slid shut behind them. Zeb pulled him into a hug, and he couldn’t see his face, but his heartbeat was steady. “I didn’t know--”

 

“It’s okay,” Zeb said into his hair. “We’re all okay. Breathe.”

 

Kallus did, digging his fingernails into Zeb’s shoulders, listening to the chant of ‘in... and out’ until his mind cleared enough to let the pain through again.

 

Zeb lifted up his chin, taking a critical look at his bandaged eye. “Didn’t last very long, did it,” he sighed, and Kallus might have rolled his remaining eye.

 

“I’ll be more careful, going forward.”

 

“Good,” Zeb put their foreheads together. “You scared the crap out of me, Kal. Your unit lost track of you, and--”

 

“I got knocked out,” Kallus cut in. “Lost my comm. You?”

 

“I got shot,” Zeb took his hand, and placed it on his side; Kallus could feel the thick dressing through his jumpsuit. “Nothing major, but I had to sit out the search party.”

 

Kallus didn’t know how long they just stood there, wrapped up in each other and mapping out new injuries, until Zeb kissed him.

 

For a man rapidly approaching middle age, Kallus’ mind could become one-tracked fairly easily, as long as Zeb was involved. It certainly didn’t hurt that Zeb was quick to get on the same page, pinning Kallus to the wall and pressing _close_. They had to be careful, Zeb stitched up on the fly and Kallus barely standing on his own, covered in all manners of bruises and burns. It probably said something about their relationship, that they were used to treading gently around each other’s wounds.

 

For once, Kallus took his time. He couldn’t think of anywhere else to be, other than here, of an assignment that could possibly have been of any importance now. His ribs hurt like hell, and his balance was off, and Zeb’s many stitches required a more deliberate approach than he had patience for. Kallus didn’t care.

 

They survived the end of the Empire, and he was damn well going to enjoy it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well hell-oo we are over! Thank you all for your patience and many lovely comments. This ship is a pleasure x


End file.
